isch,
in black, trimmed with mauve and a white lace collar, looked exactly
like her own grandmother. How a man's soul seems to show itself in his
garments. Mr. Boehnke, the schoolmaster, stood in a corner of the
ballroom criticizing the company. He had never laid so much weight on
appearances before--his mother was a very unassuming woman, and his
sisters, oh, dear!--but he had been spoiled since he had made Mrs.
Tiralla's acquaintance. She was always beautiful, and especially so
this evening. He almost devoured her with his eyes. How splendid she
looked in that dainty white dress. She was harmony personified in this
confused mass of gaudy [Pg 94] colours. The only coloured thing about
her was her smooth, silky dark hair, with the rosebuds in it, and the
little bouquet at her bosom.

She was the only one who was wearing a low-necked dress. Such a thing
had never been the fashion in Gradewitz, where it was only customary to
expose the throat and shoulder-blades. It was really extremely indecent
to be so uncovered; but none of the women would have dared say that
aloud, and the young girls even less. Next time, however, that there
was a ball in Gradewitz, all the dresses should be made like Mrs.
Tiralla's. The men seemed to approve of it. Even the most innocent
children noticed how their fathers' eyes glittered as they looked down
at Mrs. Tiralla's shoulders.

Sophia Tiralla did not seem to notice all these looks. She gave herself
up to the pleasures of the dance like a child--like a little innocent
child. All her misery had been wiped away for this short hour. What did
it matter to her that all these men stared at her in the same way as
her husband always did? Her blood did not course more quickly on that
account. Let them! She laughed at them, laughed! If they had known that
she had almost killed a human being! Almost poisoned her! She was
seized with a nervous inclination to laugh.

When Mr. Schmielke whispered to her, as he pressed her to his heart in
the gliding waltz, "My beautiful one, the sweetest rose in Poland"--he
thought that very fine, really poetical--"I'm dying of love for you,"
she laughed in his face.

"You're dancing very badly, Mr. Schmielke," she said, and next moment
flew past him in little Zientek's arms.

"_Psia krew!_" Mr. Schmielke had already accustomed [Pg 95] himself to
the Polish way of swearing. That hop o' my thumb, that little milksop
of a post office clerk, had better try to come near